My Intentions Have Been Impure

I realize now that I wanted to be a writer for the wrong reasons.  I wanted to be recognized as something I always thought I was.  I wanted to see my writing published, and acclaimed.  I feel like more recently I haven't been doing it to prove anything to myself, or for the sake of the art of writing itself.  For that I want to apologize to myself, and anyone who may come across this.  The real reason, I believe, that I started this blog, was to share my writing freely, and to remove it from under my shell.  If anyone gets anything from it, then it has served its purpose.


Some Fame Someday
by Matt Catania

When I see a pretty girl

I want her to know I’m in a band

a band she knows the name of

We can go talk about who I am

how great I am

and how when we were in high school

I wasn’t as great as I am now.

I haven’t changed

You haven’t changed

You don’t know that

It’s a shame

I want to see a pretty girl

and impress her with what I do.

I want her to get hot for me

because a million other people

know my name too.

If she’s real cute

I’ll even give her a smile

and make her sweat like I couldn’t do

when no one away from home knew

who I am.

I am the man

thick with fame

who knew everyone with

my name on their brain

gave me game?

 

The Wall

I'm hitting a wall right now.  I don't want to write anything.  Here's another old poem.

The Writer's Creed
by Matt Catania

Before I write
any words


Before I write
I must remember The Writer's Creed:

What I write right now
What I write at this moment
What I write is Perfect
at
this
very
moment

for it cannot be written any other way.


This may not be
The Greatest Poem in the History of Time.


This may not be
Perfect when you read it.


This may be
changed at a later time:


but it was Perfect at the moment it was written;
it was The Greatest Poem in its moment in time;


at
that
very
moment


for it could not be written any other way.

Emily Dickinson

We all know about Emily Dickinson.  This is with her in mind.

Like Emily 

by Matt Catania 

I too have written

my share of poems

secreted, safely

folded, finely

crackled, crumpled harshly

kept in my drawer

like Emily -

with the hope

that they will be found someday

like Emily -

hopefully before I die

like Emily

 

Oh, Cadence Delicate...

I have full faith that one day Cadence will be on tour and doing well...until then, we have had one show that I will regard as our best show so far...the one we were lucky enough to have at the Kent Stage.

Jan. 15th, 2010: Cadence Delicate Headlines the Kent Stage 

by Matt Catania 

I’m not nervous anymore.

I can’t find any sweat.

I used to sweat before I did this.

My heart used to pound out of control -

the first time we played:

I had to sit down

before I passed out.

The first time:

we played

too

fast -

I can’t remember the order we played

our songs.

Everything moved

too

fast -

This time…

I am calm.

We’re on the stage -

the same stage

Black Flag once played on:

I can’t breathe hard

or sweat if I tried.

My heart is steady:

I am calm.

We’ve practiced so many times…

so

many times…

the songs, the notes

are the skin on my fingers.

It doesn’t matter

how full

the theater is

for this show:

I am calm.

I’m ready to go.

 

This Is My Poetry

I wonder now why I didn't just call this whole thing "This Is My Poetry."  I have grown to look at this and understand it as one little corner of the internet that is all mine, that no one goes to - one where I can be completely honest with myself.  I like that a lot.  I can be honest, and explore the writing I like, love, and even hate.  I feel like I want it to stay this way.

Sometimes I feel like my references are too simple, my poems too plain to be worth much more consideration than one reading.  However, I see too many poems today by too many intelligent people become too intelligent for their own good.  If there is a message you wish to convey, to a simple audience, the simplest way to do it is the best way.  Smart writers, I feel, get bogged down too consistently in trying to exhibit their own cleverness; their own abilities.  When this happens, the tone, mood, message, climax, structure - everything about the poem is in jeopardy.  That is, unless, they are writing for a different audience.  If this is the case, then they can be as fearlessly arrogant as they wish.

My initial intention with this blog was to create a place where the world can restore poetry to an art form that is wonderful, beautiful, and still easily accessible and vital to everyone.  Of course those goals are a little lofty, considering how impossible it is for even the most powerful people in the world to get people to unite about the simplest of things...but this was my dream nevertheless.

Poetry has become too exclusive.  It has become a sanctity reserved for only those who think they are smart enough to use it.  It is the most upsetting thing about poetry today to me.

But let's forget all that for now.  This place is for me.  I will treat it that way.

So now, I will put up another poem, simple in its construction, but still poetically justified.


His One Night
by Matt Catania

A boy was born this night

My boy

With freedom in his eyes

Near wrecked

Ripped from his mother

Mottled with blood

Ready to ascend

his crystal stair.

You remember that night well

The celestial ocean split apart

wave upon wave rushing aside

to open the universe

I left the ward

went outside

to call to them

for him

Bursts of light reached across the sky -

- Such lights!

The stars burned with reckless abandon -

- A chorus of lights!

I called to them

cried for him

they carried his name

to where it burns forever:

you remember it well -

remember that night well

for Inside I found my woman alive

where tears shatter peace –

where free eyes

never see again

You remember it well

remember that night well

the night the heavens carried his name

my boy’s name

to where it burns forever…

in the heavens

and the heavens alone.

 

Sampling With Stanza and Meter

One day, possibly, this blog will open up to more people, and lots of different works will be on this - works that will help all involved make some difference in this world we live in.  For now, I am content with putting on work I've made, and some of my favorite poems.  I know it's been a little lopsided, but I will change that soon.  For now, this is my attempt to play with an iambic tetrameter with a Spenserian stanza. 


The Song of 'I'
by Matt Catania

The winds’ first song blows swiftly by.

Its music is so sweet to hear

and steady as a mountain high.

The cool, crisp gust brings eyes to tear-

but others cannot listen here.

They hear each other wail and moan!

Such company betrays the ear:

I like it when I am alone.

It’s far more fair to be alone.

The pairs hold hands and speak in tongues

and softly hold each other close

to feel the heat from lovers lungs.

A sadness fills my heart for those

who settle with that life they chose.

I flee to nature’s dulcet tone

beyond the jagged tongues of foes.

I like it when I am alone.

It’s far more fair to be alone.

But oh- how tender their embrace:

an mmm… the touch of lips: a kiss;

How satisfying love must taste!

A touch of tongue electric; this

excited rush of limpid bliss!

If only they could learn to hone

their hearts to hear… but-  I digress.

It’s just as fair to be alone.

I like it when I am alone.

The wind is all the love I need

(but I can never hold the wind.)

That peace I found is all I need

(but I can never kiss the wind.)

The subtle songs of silence blend

to lesser lovely light unknown!

(forgive my heart, it never sinned…)

- I like it when I am alone.

It’s just as fair to be alone.

The wind could never break my heart

(it doesn’t have a heart to break.)

The peace it brings will never part

(nor does it give a love to take.)

But… tangent love I cannot make

from that content I’ve always known!

(I fear I’ve made a grave mistake…)

I like it that I am alone?!

It’s not as fair to be alone!!!

The pairs, they move along the shore

sublime beneath the twilight sky.

A lonely man finds peace no more –

How slow… the years… they pass me by.

A soft, swift wind, and flask of rye.

The song, it plays a different tone.

The empty requiem of ‘I’:

“I like it that I am alone.

It’s just as fair to be alone.”